


Never Is A Promise

by capsicleonyourleft



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angels, Dubious Consent, Frottage, M/M, Plot What Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-08
Updated: 2010-04-08
Packaged: 2017-10-08 19:04:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/78600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/capsicleonyourleft/pseuds/capsicleonyourleft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael and Castiel share a history. {5.13}</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Is A Promise

Supernatural. Michael/Castiel; strongly implied Michael/Lucifer and unfulfilled Dean/Castiel. R. 1,755 words. Utter PWP.  
Spoilers for 5.13: The Song Remains The Same.

  


 “He’s home,” Michael promises as he stretches to his full height. “Safe and sound.”  Dean doesn’t seem wholly convinced, and Michael knows there’s nothing he can say to ease his apprehension; Dean will only stop fretting once he’s verified Sam is alive with his own eyes. “Before I send you to him, there’s one last thing. Where is Castiel?”

Dean’s face pales instantly, and his features harden in instinctive protectiveness. “Like I’m going to tell _you._”

“_Dean_,” Michael breathes out in warning. Patience isn’t his strongest virtue, and Dean Winchester has already stretched it past its elasticity.

“What’s it to you, anyway?” Dean huffs, his infamous bravado making a comeback. Michael resists the temptation to roll his eyes. “Haven’t you dickwads done enough? Haven’t you _taken _enough from him, you son of—”

The press of a finger against Dean’s temple is all it takes to access the information he’s after.

“Honeymoon suite,” Michael states with a smug smile. “How thoughtful.”

Dean’s eyes widen with horror and a hint of guilt. “I’ll see you soon, Dean,” he promises, and doesn’t give him the chance to protest.

 

 

 

The motel’s honeymoon suite isn’t much of a luxury, it turns out. It’s more spacious than the other rooms, and the paintjob isn’t _quite_ as bad; the red shade is mostly even along the four walls, and there are minimal cracks on the ceiling. Castiel’s lying unconscious on an obscenely large bed; his limbs spread out over red sateen sheets, legs dangling from the edge.

Michael leans back against the wall, watches silently as Castiel stirs back to consciousness upon sensing his presence.

“Hello, Castiel,” Michael greets dryly, and Castiel props himself up on his elbows. His irises are a thin ring of icy color, pupils blown wide.

“Michael.” Castiel’s voice is tight and raw, like he’s channeling his entire being through the constrained space of his throat. It’s so appropriately telling of his entire persona, and Michael has to fight back a grin.

“Your vessel suits you,” he says instead.

“I wish I could say the same of yours,” Castiel replies, voice stern and grieved. Michael _has_ to laugh.

“Yes, well,” John Winchester’s lips curl around white teeth at Michael’s smile; a pretty face at his disposal isn’t anything he’s going to waste. “It’s not _quite_ the right one, but it will do. _For now_.”

“You will not take Dean Winchester,” Castiel protests, tone sure and defiant; mastering his charge’s manners. It’d be charming if it wasn’t so infuriating.

The smile doesn’t slide off of Michael’s face. He leans back on the dresser; hands tugged in his jeans pockets. He angles his hip—John’s hip—in Castiel’s direction; blatantly seductive. “You once told me I couldn’t have _you,_” he reminisces. “I _always_ get what I want, Castiel.”

A faint blush creeps onto Castiel’s cheeks, runs across the bridge of his nose. “That was a long time ago.”

“Two Earth years are hardly long,” he counters, letting his smile slip. “Really, Castiel. I expected a warmer welcome, considering.”

“Why are you here, Michael?”

Michael’s by the bed as soon as the words leave Castiel’s mouth; one knee presses against Castiel’s thigh on the sheets, as his other leg bends between Castiel’s spread ones, inching higher up. “I thought you’d never ask,” he purrs into Castiel’s ear, breath hot and commanding as it whispers across his neck.

“I’m not Lucifer, Michael,” Castiel whispers quietly, like the admission is a painful one; like it’s a secret he daren’t admit. Their bodies are vibrating against each other, and Michael _feels_ the ache igniting Castiel’s bones. It’s familiar, and Castiel’s scent is just as addictive as Michael remembered it—sullenness and thunderstorms. “I never was.”

“No, you’re most certainly not,” he whispers back, tracing the shell of Castiel’s ear with a questing tongue. The voltage between them is as magnetic as it’s ever been, despite the time spent apart and their new, borrowed bodies. “But that hasn’t stopped us before.”

“That… that was _before_,” Castiel stutters, his voice dropping an octave and his back arching as Michael sweeps a wet tongue over a sharp cheekbone.

“Right. Before Dean Winchester,” Michael pulls back to look Castiel in the eye. “Let me tell you something,” he growls, a sudden rush of jealously and possessiveness overtaking him. He grabs both of Castiel’s wrists in his hand, pulling them forcefully over his head. His fingertips creep up Castiel’s thigh, like a spider inching towards its prey. “_I was here first, _Cas_,_” he enunciates every word with precision; palms Castiel’s crotch to emphasize his point. Castiel gulps a lungful of air and his flesh hardens in Michael’s hand.

Michael ruts against Castiel’s smaller frame, pressing his own erection tightly against the source of warmth. He doesn’t let go of Castiel’s wrists, and Castiel’s long legs wrap around his waist. The new position increases the friction and chafe; it’s utterly, sinfully delicious. Michael fists his hand in Castiel’s hair, twists it aggressively as he bites on Castiel’s chin.

“Michael. _Michael,_” Castiel urges, but Michael ignores him in favor of biting on his collarbone, trailing his tongue along the wounded skin he leaves behind. He takes a special interest in the bone prodding from Castiel’s shoulder; nips and marvels at its curve along his tongue.

It’s a surprise when he’s suddenly flipped on his back, Castiel’s features sharp and bruising as he stares down at him. Castiel’s lips feel like dried petals, and Michael lets go of all restraint, and _devours. _He probes his tongue inside Castiel’s mouth, rails his tongue along perfectly aligned teeth; tastes smooth, clean gums. Their lips make obscene, loud noises as they clash and swap saliva, and it’s absolutely maddening. Michael is utterly unsure of how they ever survived that much time apart. Castiel’s hands are suddenly on Michael’s waist, assuring their bodies press together as tightly as they possibly can, and Michael can feel the sharp jut of Castiel’s hipbones against his abdominals. It’s electrifying, and he wants nothing more than to have the time to let those hipbones cut and carve onto his skin; let them communicate the words Castiel doesn’t dare utter. It’s time they don’t have, and Michael has to do with what he’s given.

He smirks up at Castiel, flipping him onto his back to resume their previous position. Castiel lets out a groan that’s half fervor and half resistance, and it occurs to Michael that this isn’t the Castiel he first lured into his bed after Lucifer was banished; the one Michael had his sight on ever since. It isn’t the Castiel who sought Michael’s acceptance and love, who submitted himself under Michael’s care in exchange for belonging. This is a Castiel that _takes_. Michael is delighted at the challenge of luring out that doe-eyed innocence once more; had he the time, there is no question he would accomplish the task. 

Castiel closes his eyes and sighs, and Michael thinks, _There. There it is._

“This is wrong,” Castiel gasps weakly, like it pains him. Michael knows Castiel well enough to know it’s _meant_ to be deterring; it falls flat and frivolous instead. 

“Then why don’t you stop me,” he challenges into the shell of Castiel’s ear, fingers poised on his zipper.

Castiel arches into Michael’s hand, and all protests dissipate as his hips snap forward. Michael makes quick work of their belts and zippers, pulls down pants and underwear until he can grip their cocks in hand. Castiel’s eyes roll back in his head, mouth agape in a wide, plush “O” Michael can’t resist filling with his tongue. He tightens his grip around their swelled dicks, pumps the shafts sin synchrony and uses his other hand to skate the cushion of his palm against Castiel’s slit. Castiel lets out a guttural moan as he rocks his pelvis in a frantic rhythm and reaches for Michael, his hand locking on the back of his nape and pulling him forward, nuzzling against his cheek and jaw. Michael is happy to allow the contact, and he slips his index finger to tease between the heads of their cocks, as his thumb and middle finger continue their frenzied voyage to bring them both to orgasm.

Michael bites on Castiel’s bottom lip, tugs and pulls and tastes the metallic tang of blood. Castiel murmurs his approval, and his hands slip under Michael’s shirt to rake short, sharp fingernails over his back. Michael uses his free hand to tease filthy paths over Castiel’s thigh, reaches for the sensitive skin behind his balls. His touch is barely a ghost, and Castiel is close to being undone; his breaths are short and labored—further proof of his descent from his former angelic status.  

“You ever come like this, Castiel?” Michael asks, even if he knows the answer. “Ever fall apart at the seams under human hands?”

Castiel arches his hips even closer, so close it _hurts, _and comes with a long, loud cry; leaking onto his stomach and Michael’s cock. His eyes are closed and he’s biting his lip in an obscenely seductive fashion. Michael’s sure the sight alone is enough to undo him, because _damn, Castiel has chosen one _fine _vessel,_ but the theory remains untested as Castiel wraps long, pale fingers around Michael’s burning flesh and _pumps,_ and Michael’s coming all over his hand and dress-shirt.

Michael doesn’t move back or pulls away from Castiel. Hours or minutes pass as he lies with his forehead pressed against Castiel’s; he’s not sure. Castiel is flush and feverish, and Michael knows it’s not simply a result from their recent physical activity. He captures Castiel’s mouth for one last kiss, and pours as much Grace into him as he can. He can’t do much for him, but he can give him the energy to make the journey back without suffering repercussions.

Wordlessly—and a bit reluctantly, Michael pulls away and shuffles back to his feet. Castiel is starting at him with wide, too-blue eyes; there’s a mess of bodily fluids drying on his button-down, and he looks utterly debauched. Michael snaps his fingers to clean himself up, but doesn’t do the same for Castiel; wants to savor the sight and memory.

“Make sure to hide yourself well, Castiel,” Michael says. It’s easier than _Goodbye_. “Raphael won’t be so merciful if he finds you.”

Castiel nods— just a small tilt of his chin that makes Michael’s insides clench.

Michael’s gone after that, and he knows he won’t regret resurrecting Castiel; no matter the repercussions he will have to face. 


End file.
